Satish Singh
Translated from the Hindi by Abdullah Khan
The Circle of Journeys
Whenever we move from a village to a city
Or from a city to a village
Everything changes
Air, soil, water
Whisperings of new wind
The fragrance of new flowers
Or from a city to a village
Everything changes
Air, soil, water
Whisperings of new wind
The fragrance of new flowers
We move to a new place again
But old memories remain stuck
To our consciousness
Their fragrance and flavour intact
But old memories remain stuck
To our consciousness
Their fragrance and flavour intact
The winter morning
The garden-fresh sun just out of its hidings
My train stops
On a unknown platform
But the name of the city is familiar to me
I could barely read – “Patna”
On a wall stained with red paan juices
The garden-fresh sun just out of its hidings
My train stops
On a unknown platform
But the name of the city is familiar to me
I could barely read – “Patna”
On a wall stained with red paan juices
I am amazed at the deepness of the city
As I walk around
To explore the city
As I walk around
To explore the city
When I see ‘Agamkuan’ I wonder
How emperor Ashoka
Might have killed his 99 brothers
A psychopath must have resided in his body
Bloody dreams must have infested his eyes
He must have been a heartless man
With a conscience devoid of
Empathy or compassion
How emperor Ashoka
Might have killed his 99 brothers
A psychopath must have resided in his body
Bloody dreams must have infested his eyes
He must have been a heartless man
With a conscience devoid of
Empathy or compassion
In my dreams
I see the River Ganges
Shrouded in darkness
When I woke up
I find the river is on ventilators
I see the River Ganges
Shrouded in darkness
When I woke up
I find the river is on ventilators
The filth littering the streets
The vehicles clogging the roads
The concrete jungle
Women walking naked in the markets
The shattered mirrors of grace and honour
The demise of thoughtfulness
The vehicles clogging the roads
The concrete jungle
Women walking naked in the markets
The shattered mirrors of grace and honour
The demise of thoughtfulness
In this age of rapid transition
The cool breeze no more sings the ballads of spring season
The moon no more sprinkles its golden moonlight
Rivers, winds, trees and humans
Have been deprived of the life giving rays of the early morning sun
The cool breeze no more sings the ballads of spring season
The moon no more sprinkles its golden moonlight
Rivers, winds, trees and humans
Have been deprived of the life giving rays of the early morning sun
Mankind is not yet dead
But is breathing its last
I have an overwhelming impulse to cry loudly
But I manage to control my feelings
I fear I will be branded insane
But is breathing its last
I have an overwhelming impulse to cry loudly
But I manage to control my feelings
I fear I will be branded insane
Will the flutter of the wind
Give melody to its melody-less whisperings
Will the courtyard of my house
Be fragrant with sweet memories of the past
When I set out on a new journey?
Give melody to its melody-less whisperings
Will the courtyard of my house
Be fragrant with sweet memories of the past
When I set out on a new journey?
***
No comments:
Post a Comment